Family Costume, Ineffable Edition
by scrub456
Summary: Rosie Watson is in charge of the Halloween costumes this year. She insists Sherlock and John dress as Aziraphale and Crowley, with near disastrous results. *Johnlock, slightly OOC, no smut, rated T for language*


***Author's Note***

This fic was written as a birthday gift for a sweet fandom friend, PatPrecieux, over on AO3. She has an affinity for Johnlock, the Ineffable duo, and humor. So, I've endeavored to tackle all three in one story. There are accompanying illustrations I sketched (as I was participating in an Inktober challenge last month), and included as the cover art for this story.

* * *

"Rosie. Love. Please." John had, once upon a time, made a promise to himself that he would never stoop to bribing his child.

His resolve, worn nearly through, was about to its breaking point. He was ready to offer anything… almost… to get her to change her mind. Hell, forget bribery, he'd beg if it came right down to it.

"But da." She looked up at him with glistening eyes. Her lip wobbled and there was a waver in her voice. "You have to. You promised."

Damn eight year olds and their selective perfect recall. "You're right, I did." John nodded. "But Ro, we, Sherlock and I, we _both _thought you meant… Well…" He motioned between the two of them.

"Watson, it doesn't make sense!" Sherlock huffed and tugged at both his sleeves in frustration.

"But you _promised_! You have to be Aziraphale and Crowley!" Rosie sniffed and blinked rapidly. "Don't you _like_ the costumes I made? I worked so hard!" She sniffed again with a pitiful frown.

"Yes, Ro. Of course. We love them." John was about to kneel down in front of her, but thought better of it. Sherlock huffed again and ran his fingers through his hair and scratched at his scalp. "Especially the wings you made with Molly. It's just that… Uhm… I… We… thought, you know…"

"For godsake, John!" Sherlock dropped his hands to his side and stomped right up to Rosie. "Watson, I want to wear my own clothes. I look ridiculous wearing your father's horrendous trousers. And this cardigan, _ugh_!"

"Hey!" John cut in.

Sherlock talked right over him. "The shoulders are too tight. _Everything _is too short." He scratched at his scalp again, sending flecks of white tinted hair spray flying. "And this colored spray is doing terrible things to my hair."

"Oi! It's no picnic wearing your clothes either, you know!" John scowled and swatted Sherlock's hands away from his hair. "The sleeves are too long, and everything is so fu-" he glanced at Rosie who glanced at the swear jar (it had already funded one family vacation). "Uh- tight. I tried to wear the button up shirt, but popped the first one right off!"

"John!" Sherlock staggered as if wounded. "That shirt is tailor made. One of a kind. If you ruined it…"

"Take a damn breath, you bastard – yes, I know, swear jar – and stop pulling those sleeves." John reached up to scratch at his own head and the red spray tinting his hair. "You and your orangutan arms are going to stretch it out!"

"Good!" Sherlock tugged again. "You're just grumpy because you've put on weight, seven pounds, _yes of course_ I noticed, and yes it actually is seven pounds, and you couldn't button my trousers if my life depended on it."

John growled and stalked right up into Sherlock's personal space and shoved his dark sunglasses up onto his head. "Joke's on you. I broke the zipper." Sherlock gasped and narrowed his eyes. John smirked. "And I'll rip the seam of this jacket too if you don't shut. The. Fu…"

"What the _hell_ is going on here?" Greg started to laugh, but coughed to stifle it. Molly giggled behind him.

"Swear jar, Uncle Greg!" Rosie laughed and gave them both hugs. "You look so perfect!" She clapped her hands in delight, no sign of her previous distress anywhere to be seen.

Greg turned a full circle, showing off his torn and "blood stained" suit, complete with the pink lipstick smudge on the collar. He bowed and tipped the fake knife that looked like it was stuck through his head as if it were a hat. Molly, in her 1950's style dress, gave a little curtsey and waved her plastic knife, which she held in her blood stained and yellow dish glove clad hand.

Sherlock hummed. "Cheating husband and murderous wife. Dull." He scrunched his nose, tugged a sleeve, and scratched his scalp.

"Stick with what you know." Greg winked at Rosie and took Molly's hand. "So, I'm _guessing_ you two aren't ready to head to the party?"

John sighed and turned slowly to face them, his face turning crimson as he went. "Uhm, not so much."

Molly laughed outright. "Oh! Oh, no. I'm sorry! It's just…" She did kneel down to Rosie's level. "Rosie, I thought when you were telling me your ideas, that your da would be Aziraphale and Sherlock would be Crowley."

"But…" Rosie suddenly remembered she was supposed to be pouting, and fell against Molly. "That's not what I want them to be!"

"Okay, but doesn't it make sense for them to wear their own clothes?" Molly smiled and brushed Rosie's curls back from her face. "See, easy. Just like you picked the perfect costumes for Uncle Greg and me."

Rosie mumbled against Molly's neck.

"Sorry, love, I didn't hear that." John stepped toward them and glanced at Sherlock, who dropped his hand to his side and took up scowling again.

"I said," Rosie pushed back from Molly, "da _has_ to be Crowley. He's brave like him. And Holmes is smart like Aziraphale."

Molly hugged Rosie and cooed at her. Greg grinned. And John's resolve all but melted.

"Ro," John held out his hand to her.

"Wrong." Sherlock sniffed and crossed his arms over his chest, causing the buttons of John's waistcoat to strain and the sleeves of his cardigan to ride up almost to his elbows. He looked directly at Rosie. "Try again."

"Wha- _Sher_lock." John frowned.

"C'mon Watson, what's the real reason?" Sherlock stood his ground.

Rosie rubbed her eyes, still no actual real tears, and stood up straight. She nodded once in determination and marched right up to Sherlock. She climbed up onto the coffee table and, standing so they were almost eye to eye, reached up and put a hand on either side of Sherlock's face.

"Watson?" Sherlock maintained his rigid stance.

"Your eyes."

"What?" Sherlock couldn't help the startled laugh.

"Your eyes are kind, like the angel." Rosie smiled almost sheepishly. "Holmes, please be Aziraphale?" She kissed his nose and gave him a hug.

"I…" Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed in resignation as he brought one arm up to hug Rosie back. "John?"

"We _can't _go out like this." John shrugged "But maybe we can…"

"Yay!" Rosie jumped down from the table and charged up the stairs to her room. "I have to finish getting ready!"

Sherlock ripped off his bowtie and was trying to pull everything, the shirt, waistcoat, and cardigan, all over his head before she even slammed her door behind her. He got tangled up in his wings, causing an explosion of gold and blue glitter, and would have started swearing himself if John hadn't stepped in to save him.

"Slow down, you great git." John laughed as he undid a few buttons and released Sherlock from his frumpy prison. When he could see Sherlock's eyes he laughed again. "What are we going to do?" He struggled to slide Sherlock's jacket off and Sherlock rolled his eyes, nudged him to turn, and helped him off with it.

"Why don't we take Rosie and head on to the party while you two figure it out?" Greg winked conspiratorially, and Molly elbowed him in the side.

"Are you sure?" John glanced up the steps. "She's been a handful lately."

"We'd love to!" Molly grinned as Rosie's door banged open and she stomped down the steps.

"Come on, Hammie!" Rosie called to the poor, longsuffering family dog, and the two entered the sitting room with a flourish and a twirl of a mini knock-off Bellstaff coat. Rosie pulled the too big deerstalker cap onto her head and fished her magnifying glass from her pocket. Hammie plopped down beside her, wearing the oatmeal colored jumper Mrs. Hudson had found for him as a joke.

"Aww!" Molly and Greg gushed in unison.

"Am I… Is the dog _me_?" John stammered.

Sherlock laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more. "Brilliant, Watson!"

"Wha- Now, just…" John's shoulders slumped. "_Really_?"

Greg snorted. "Okay, Rosebud, I think you've traumatized your father enough for one day. How about we head on out, and let these two sort themselves out and catch up later?" He patted Rosie's head and then Hammie's.

"Aunt Molly?" Rosie turned her big glistening eyes and wobbly lip to Molly. "Can I spend the night with you tonight?"

"Oh! Uhm…" Molly glanced at John and then Greg. "Well, I…."

"Please? Please please _please_?" She folded her hands under her chin as if she were praying. "I'll be so good."

"Well, it's okay with me…" Molly turned to Greg.

"We can order chinese. Watch a scary movie?" Greg leaned down to Rosie. "But not too scary, right kiddo?" Rosie smiled and nodded.

"I guess." John shrugged. "I mean we were going to…"

"Yes!" Rosie ducked into the hall and came back with an already packed overnight bag. "C'mon! Let's go!" She gave John a quick kiss on his cheek and Sherlock a one armed hug, then grabbed Molly by the hand and headed for the steps. "Come _on_ Uncle Greg! Come, Hammie!"

"I, uhm… Guess that's my cue." Greg scratched his forehead.

"…And Andrea and Chloe will be at the party. Can they stay over too…" Rosie was chattering all the way down the steps.

"Gee, Ro, I don't…" Molly started to reply.

Rosie kept talking until she was out of earshot. "…They already asked their mums. But Chloe doesn't like chinese, so we'll have to get pizza instead. And it's Andrea's birthday on Monday, so we can make cupcakes…"

"What just happened?" Greg's hand was still on his head.

"I've been replaced?" John looked just as stunned and a little heartbroken.

"Oh, no. Look mate…" Greg squeezed John's shoulder. "Just…"

"Nope. You all got played by an eight year old. A clever, devious child. You could learn a few things from her." Sherlock, still bare chested, but for some reason wearing the wings, spun Greg around, shoved him out to the landing, and closed and locked the door.

"Finally." He turned and leaned back against the door. "Now, what are we…" He stopped short when he saw the conflicted look on John's face. "John?"

"I…" John shrugged and sniffed. "She's growing too fast. She's too smart. I don't know if I…" He shrugged again and turned his face away from Sherlock.

"You nothing, John." Sherlock pulled him close and wrapped his arms around him, only tangling with John's wings twice. "You're an excellent father. Better than any I've observed. And Rosie adores you. But Rosie is a prepubescent girl, and she's looking for female influence. You're fortunate it's Molly she's looking to."

"I suppose," John sighed and leaned against Sherlock's chest. They rested there a few peaceful moments. "Was it really so terrible being me?"

Sherlock snorted. "Idiot."

"I'm serious, Sherlock. Am I…"

"Do not finish that sentence. Self pity is not becoming on you, John." Sherlock pushed John back just enough so he could see his eyes. "I won't say you're perfect, because you're not. No one is. You live with me, you know this to be painfully true. No one is perfect. But you're perfect for me. And I wouldn't want to be you, because I'd much rather just be me and have the real thing any time I want." Sherlock smiled timidly as John beamed up at him and pulled him down into a slow sweet kiss.

"It's true, you know." John whispered when they pulled apart.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock leaned toward John again, but John took a step back.

"Your eyes." John cupped Sherlock's jaw. "You do have kind eyes."

"For you, John. Only for you. And Watson."

"Untrue." John kissed him gently then stepped back again.

"I'm not kind." Sherlock shook his head.

"I think that's my line," John shimmied a bit to make his wings move (sending red and silver glitter everywhere), winked, and slid his sunglasses back into place as he turned and headed down the hall to the bedroom.

Sherlock blushed and watched him go. It wasn't until he noted just exactly how tight those trousers were on John that Sherlock startled from his observations and gave chase. When he reached the bedroom door, John tossed a plain white sheet to him, shoved him out into the hall, and closed and locked the door.

"John?" Sherlock dove for the bathroom door, but heard the lock click on the adjoining door a moment too soon. "Damn. John! What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Make a costume!" John shouted back.

"What? Whatever am I supposed to make out of a sheet?" Sherlock considered getting his lock pick set when the door opened just enough for John to stick his head out.

"You've read the book and seen the show." John nodded to the sheet. "A toga is not a difficult concept." With that John disappeared back into their room and locked the door.

"Are we really going to do this?" Sherlock whined. He didn't wait for John to respond, but trudged back to the sitting room discarding shoes, socks, and John's trousers as he went.

When John returned to the sitting room fifteen minutes later Sherlock was stood petulantly in the middle of the room, still wearing his wings and halo, but wrapped in the sheet, very much as he had been that day at the palace.

"Dressed to impress, I see." With a smirk, John stepped into the room.

"Hngk." Sherlock froze, eyes wide and jaw slack. He hadn't expected John to actually put in the effort. But he had. And then some.

Their best black sheet was draped around him, artfully so, knotted at the shoulder so the excess hung off him like a cloak. The waist cinched with the red belt from his robe. He had one of Rosie's gold flowered headbands on backwards as a laurel wreath, and his wings and sunglasses were back in place.

"I think that's also my line." John's smile was slightly wicked.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "John."

"Yes, _Angel_?"

"John, I…" Sherlock blinked rapidly and shook his head. "I… Uhm… I don't think the combat boots go with the… Uhm…"

"Don't they?" John stalked over to Sherlock, circled him, and then backed him up to the wall. "Are you sure?"

Looking John up and down, Sherlock could come up with absolutely no argument. In fact, he noted, and appreciated, the added height. "No?"

"I thought not." Still smirking, John took a step nearer then stopped. With a laugh he put a hand on Sherlock's hip. "Red, huh? Are you wearing _my_ pants?"

Still a bit overcome, Sherlock nodded.

"Let me guess. You were already wearing my other clothes, so you figured, 'why not?' Is that it?" John tilted his head down just enough to look at Sherlock over the top of his sunglasses. Sherlock nodded again. "Bloody hell. That's… Damn Sherlock."

Emboldened by John's reaction, Sherlock stood a bit taller, even with the boots, he still had the advantage of height over John, and let his sheet slide off one shoulder. "And what about you, John?"

John flushed crimson, but recovered himself after only a moment.

"Well, John? I'm waiting."

Stepping completely into Sherlock's space, John took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "Ask me the question." When Sherlock cocked his eyebrow in confusion, John rolled his eyes and laughed. "I'm wrapped up in a sheet being stubborn. Ask me _the _question."

Understanding flashed in Sherlock's eyes, and he couldn't help but laugh. "John?"

"Hmmm?"

"_John._"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Are you wearing any pants?" Sherlock held his breath.

"What do you think?" John was still smirking.

Sherlock smirked right back. "I think…" He dropped his sheet, leaving him in just his halo, wings, and John's red pants. "_I_ think you are a foul fiend, John Watson." Before John had time to react, Sherlock scooped him up bridal style.

"Sherlock!" John laughed and tried to wriggle his way free. Sherlock tightened his grip. "Sherlock, the party!"

"Rosie's accounted for. You're practically indecent. And I hate socializing." Sherlock grinned. "Tell me this isn't a better idea." He slowly started towards their bedroom. "Run away with me."

"That's my line." John whispered as he ran one hand along Sherlock's shoulder and up around his neck. He leaned up just enough to place a kiss on Sherlock's jaw. "I love you, you know?"

Sherlock hummed and held John a little closer.

"There aren't always enough words for me to tell you just how much." John teased the fine hairs just at the base of Sherlock's neck, causing him to shiver and his breath to stutter.

"One might call it ineffable," Sherlock murmured.

"One might," John smiled up at him.

"I love you too, John." Sherlock sniffed, pressed a kiss to John's head, and used his foot to nudge the bedroom door shut behind them.

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***A/N***

The initial idea for this story stemmed from a short series of one shots I wrote last year about "family"costumes, and a Twitter conversation with another fandom friend, almosttomorocco, about John and Sherlock dressing up as Aziraphale and Crowley for Halloween, and who should be who.


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